Risk of a Lifetime (12 page)

Anything.

He closed the door behind him as survival mode kicked into gear. Survival for him and Marcy meant using his skills and keeping a clear head. He knew how to stay in control. To do what he’d been trained to do in evaluating a case. In protecting the victim. In taking the criminal down. He had to think of this like every other case he’d ever had. Look for clues and meet the objective.

Only one thing hadn’t been in the manual. How to handle your emotions when someone you cared about was the target.

Chapter Thirteen

JB joined Sheriff Davis and Kennett as they walked out the front door of the police station, each with their own look of determination.

“No one goes in my office,” the sheriff shouted over his shoulder to the patrolman guarding his office doorway. “And I mean. No. One.”

“Where we headed?” JB jogged around to the passenger side of the sheriff’s patrol car. Kennett slid into his own cruiser and shadowed along behind.

Sheriff Davis’ hand rested firmly on the wheel. “Joanie’s. Evans will catch us up with his findings before he heads home.”

“I’ve got a few questions for the restaurant workers myself.” JB had more than a few, and there’d better be answers. His brain shouted for him to respect the position he was in. This wasn’t his case, his turf, or even his town anymore. Technically, he wasn’t even a lawman at the moment. What he needed to do was follow the lead of the man who trained him years ago. “That is, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“Figured as much. Don’t overstep your non-position though.” The sheriff grinned as he pulled to a stop in front of Joanie’s Pizza, Pub, and Pool Hall. “Ever sorry you left town? Joined the FBI?”

“In case you hadn’t heard, I quit the FBI the day Marcy got shot. Turned in my service revolver to the deputy. And just handed my shield to Truman.” He eased out the passenger door before he had to answer the real question. “He’ll get it to the right person if something happens.”

The sheriff nodded. He knew Truman’s connection to the FBI. Then he glanced at the gun holstered on JB’s shoulder. “You got a permit to carry that one?”

“Yep. I’ve got a permit for everything I’m carrying.” Of course, improvisation didn’t need a permit. And he’d learned the art of making do with what you’ve got when your life was in the balance.

As his and the sheriff’s breath fogged in the air, JB surveyed everything along the street, mentally shucking the unnecessary back out into the air. When he first started out, the sheriff had taught him the look-and-discard routine on this same street years ago. The system served him well through his undercover work.

Something was there. Something he was missing. Something to start a trail. What? He drew in a deep breath. Where? He looked again.

Joanie’s sat on the end of the 500 block of Main Street, right next door to a family-owned furniture store and across the street from Dee’s Morning Diner. Not much help there. The diner closed at 2 p.m., but maybe the insurance office on the right held an answer. Used to be a receptionist at the front desk by the window. He’d check them later.

Kennett parked his patrol car and sighted in on the same surroundings.

“Well, what do you men see?” Sheriff Davis donned his hat and rested his hand for a brief moment on the butt of his gun holstered at his waist, an assurance check the man was known for, before heading to the front door of Joanie’s restaurant.

JB’s shoulder-holstered Glock was in plain view today. Putting on a Crayton Police jacket would have been misleading, and he’d left his own jacket in his truck at the impound lot. His backup, a .38 Special, was holstered on his inner, left ankle. Hidden under his jeans on the outside of his right calf was a quick-release knife and holder. “Depends on what the workers say?”

The rookie nodded, following behind the sheriff and JB as they entered Joanie’s. Evans met them at the rear of the restaurant, his expression serious and frustrated. The report covered the happenings—food cooked, food bagged, food waiting by register. There had to be more.

Sheriff Davis pulled out his pen and notepad. “Evans. Kennett. One of you check the alley trash cans.”

“Trash cans?” the deputy asked.

“See if our artist dumped the markers in the trash on his way out.” The sheriff glared at the men. “And, one of you get out front. See what you can find out from the customers.”

The two policemen lowered their eyes and scattered in opposite directions.

JB forced a casual tone to his voice. “Evans seems the same as before I left.”

Sheriff Davis glanced at the swinging doorway. “Yep. Still questions anything he hasn’t thought of. Otherwise, he’s one hell of a good deputy. Good man, too.”

“What about Kennett? How long’s he been here?” JB remembered to slip into his conversational stance.

“Rookie’s been here close to a year.”

“Appears to have a good grasp on the community.”

“Came with good references from a sheriff up in Illinois.”

“Why’d he choose here?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Smooth, JB. But you asked one question too many to be passing time.”

JB didn’t care if he was smooth or not. Anybody could be focused on Marcy. “I’m not ruling anyone out I don’t know.”

“It’s not one of my men.” Davis’s tone held authority, conviction, and understanding. “Trust me. I’d know.”

JB scanned the restaurant as the lowering sun glared through from the outside. “Sorry. Next thing you know, I’ll be interrogating dust specks in the air.”

Starting at the front door and working his sight-field around section-by-section, he visually and mentally scrutinized everything. Top to bottom, bottom to top, stool to stool, table to table, booth to booth. He tensed. Coincidences topped the list of things he didn’t like. Convenient details were number two.

Why was the guy in the second booth still in town? Why here? Was he really having pie? Or, rather, conveniently nursing a cup of coffee while he pushed uneaten pieces of crust around a plate?

JB made no pretense of friendliness as he walked to the booth. “Who are you?”

The broad-shouldered man who’d pulled up on his motorcycle and had carried Betsy from the car earlier in the day didn’t bother to look up. He motioned the waitress for a coffee refill. “Didn’t say.”

Pushing himself where he shouldn’t go was a technique JB had mastered. Right now, he didn’t give a damn if he used tact or not. In fact, a good knock-down fight might clear his mind. He braced his arms on the table then leaned into the man’s space. “I want an answer. What are you doing in Crayton?”

The man’s jaw worked, and his expression said “back off” when he raised his head, but he kept his cool. “I don’t believe you’ve showed me your badge, officer. If you are an officer.”

JB reached for his FBI credentials, but Sheriff Davis’ firm and gentle hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind. Finally, JB blew out a sigh and leaned against a stool at the counter behind him. Hell. He had no credentials. And he’d pushed too far.

Realizing he needed to let the police focus on the case, he glanced out the plate glass window. Wilson had been right, he was too emotionally involved. But, then again, how could he stay out of the way?

Sheriff Davis slid into the conversation as he sat on the cushion on the opposite side of the stranger’s booth, popping his finger on the table…
tap, pause, tap, tap.
That used to be the code the sheriff used to mean
watch what you say
. “My friend here didn’t mean anything by his questions. We’re working a case right now, and he’s just a little over imaginative.”

The man sat his cup down, glanced at the sheriff, then grinned. “Once I heard about the trouble going on around town, I figured you’d be looking for me. Seeing as I helped at the scene this afternoon.” Hands splayed in a don’t-get-excited attitude, he stood, then held out his hand to JB. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Cain Connery.”

JB grasped the man’s hand and didn’t let go. “Cain…Cain Connery. Seventh grade, I pummeled you for swiping my lunch.”

The men stepped apart, eyeing each other with memories.

“A guy’ll do what he has to when his belly’s empty.” Cain eased back into the booth. “Besides, I prefer to remember junior high when I crushed you into the ground every chance I got on the football field. Of course, Marcy was so infatuated with you, she still never gave me a second glance.”

The sheriff shuffled his pen and notepad to one hand, and shook Cain’s with the other. “As I recall, by the time you two got to high school, you’d both learned how to communicate. Good thing, ‘cause I’m not sure which one of you’d have whooped the other.”

JB grabbed a chair from the closest table, crossed his leg over the seat, and folded his forearms on the back. Yeah, he remembered Cain from years ago, but the man still hadn’t said what he was doing in town. Last JB heard, Cain and his dad had been in some trouble down in the Gulf area. Maybe somewhere along the line he’d decided to hire his gun out to the highest bidder.

Sheriff Davis leaned back as if comfortable with the whole situation at hand. “Sorry to hear your dad has gone and moved to Alaska for good. I always loved hearing his stories on hunting.”

Cain tensed, then eased. “Yeah, well…he’s got some new stories now. Like the one where the polar bear didn’t back down.”

“What made him go to Alaska?” JB remembered Cain’s old man. He hadn’t been much, but at least the guy had stuck around until his son had joined the Army and shipped out. Had never made him a punching bag, either.

“After my discharge, it seemed like every place I landed, he showed up a few months later.” Cain took a gulp of coffee. “When my job got relocated to the Anchorage office, I actually thought he wouldn’t follow me that far north. Of course, I hadn’t expected him to show up when I worked on the oil rigs in the Gulf, either.”

Kennett returned with Joanie.

“Some of the staff needs to clock out,” Joanie said. “Okay to send them home?”

“Not yet,” Sheriff Davis and JB spoke in unison.

“Looks like I’d better get out of your way.” Cain laid a ten on the table and stood.

JB stood also. He still didn’t have his answer. “If you’re gonna be in town for a while, maybe we can get together for a beer sometime.”

Cain grinned. “A beer sounds good. But don’t waste your money if you just want to know why I’m in town.”

“Which is?” the sheriff asked.

“The old man signed over the house and cabin to me. Figure I’ll remodel the house and make a few bucks when spring comes. That is if I can pick up a job for the winter.” Cain opened the front door. “Hope you guys find your man.”

Sheriff Davis, JB, Kennett, and Joanie headed to the kitchen.

“Hey, JB.” Cain stood in the half-closed doorway, motioning him over. “I asked some questions of my own when I got to town. I know you were FBI, but right now I figure you’ll do what you gotta do to protect your ex-wife. Let me know if I can help.”

“Thanks, I appreciate the offer.” JB wasn’t quite sure what the man could do to help though. “What line of work are you in nowadays?”

Cain set his jaw, then slid his hand in his pocket returning with a small leather case. He made sure to keep it concealed between the two of them as he showed his DEA badge. “A little of this. A little that.”

Suddenly the idea of him as an ally sat real good in JB’s gut. “You just may be hearing from me.”

“Hey, that woman I pulled out of the car okay?” Cain slid the badge back in his jacket.

“Hairline fracture in her arm.”

“Not that it matters, but who is she?”

JB laughed. “Talk about wanting to know something. That’s Marcy’s older sister. Betsy.”

“Betsy? From tenth grade history class? Umm, might need to give her a call.” Cain stepped to the side as customers piled through the door. “She still appeared to be one feisty, little hellcat.” He stepped outside and pulled the door closed.

Sheriff Davis looked on from the kitchen doorway. “I ain’t telling Betsy what he said.”

“Me, neither. She barely tolerates me as it is.” JB led the charge into the kitchen. Time to move on to the next interrogation.

Thirty minutes later, the workers were clocking out, and Joanie looked as deflated as JB felt. Evans had been right—there wasn’t anything of value to be learned. Didn’t make sense. The note hadn’t magically appeared in Marcy’s sandwich box, but no one had seen anything.

Burt the cook punched his card and patted JB on the arm as he passed by, heading out the back door. “Maybe the new guy Joanie just hired’ll be able to shed some light.”

Joanie straightened. “What new guy?”

Chapter Fourteen

JB’s gut tightened. Icy prickles crawled beneath his skin as he felt his muscles tighten. The missing link hovered in the air.

“You know. The new waiter who started this afternoon.” Burt walked back to the group.

“I didn’t hire anyone,” Joanie said.

The men tightened their semi-circle around the cook as Joanie stepped out of the way.

JB realized his place in this questioning was nil unless the sheriff gave him leeway to ask. On the other hand, he could listen, make his own notes. He focused like his life depended on the words. No—like Marcy’s life depended on the words.

Sheriff Davis hung his hat on a pot hook in the corner before he took a seat at the small table. He motioned to Burt. “Take your time, and tell us what happened.”

The aging cook emitted a nervous squeak, his eyes slumped like his tired shoulders, and his hands brushed against his pants legs. He’d been a fixture in the restaurant for over twenty years. Today would be one of the man’s most important days at work.

“Don’t be nervous.” Joanie handed him a glass of water. “Take your time.”

JB sensed the unease wrestling its way through the cook. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No.” Burt wrung his hands. “I mean I’d rather not sit, sir. But, I will if I have to. Whatever you want.”

JB slouched against the counter behind him. He needed to put the cook at ease. Glancing at the canned goods stacked on the kitchen shelves, he wished all the foods hadn’t been bought in bulk. One can could feed a dozen or more. “You’ve got a lot of food stockpiled back here.” He walked over and grabbed the smallest can of pineapple he could find. “Mind if I open this?”

Joanie shook her head. “Fine with me. Put it on your next bill.”

He jabbed the can under the opener, then fumbled on purpose. “Never could get the hang of these. Can you give me a hand, Burt?”

The cook took the can and hooked it into the opener, then reached for a bowl to dump the slices in. Joanie moved forward to finish the job herself, but the sheriff raised his finger and barely shook his head. She stepped back and then perched on a stool she pulled from under the counter.

JB accepted the bowl of fruit and forked some into his mouth, smiled. “Good stuff.” He took another bite. “Now Burt, all we want you to do is tell us what happened. Can you remember? Can you help us nail this guy?”

The cook nodded, gulped his water down, then swiped his sleeve across his mouth before placing the glass in the dishwasher. When he turned to the group again, he looked composed. Ready. “Was about two or two-thirty. I’d just finished up the order Evans called in. A big one, and I wanted everything to be done ‘bout the same time. If everything’s hot when it’s put in the bag, then it’s hot for the customer when they get home. Or to the police station in this case.

“Anyhow, I had it all wrapped and piled, ready to go in the bags when this new man walked over with a Styrofoam container. Had flowers drawn on top. Said Joanie decorated it special for Marcy’s sandwich. He grabbed one of the sandwiches, plopped it in the container, closed the lid, and stuck it in the bag. Packed the whole damn order for me.”

Joanie cleared her throat. “I never hired anyone new. And I didn’t have time to be decorating any special box what with the special delivery down the street.”

The sheriff leaned on the table. “What special delivery?”

“One of the men at the lumber yard called in at 2:10 for a whole apple pie and a gallon of ice cream if I’d bring it down by 2:15,” Joanie grumped. “Except when I got down there, no one ‘fessed up to placing the order.”

“I’ll check on where the call came from.” Kennett made a note.

“Probably a disposable phone.” JB forked another chunk of pineapple into his mouth.

Joanie flushed. “You think the guy called to get me out of the way, so he could have access to the kitchen?”

Sheriff Davis turned his focus back to Burt. “What happened next?”

“Not much. I mentioned he must be new. Didn’t think much of it. Joanie’s always giving somebody down on their luck a chance.” The cook glanced at his boss. “Told him my name. He never told me his, though.”

“Wouldn’t matter, he’d have lied anyhow. What else?”

Burt fiddled with his ear lobe. “Had a big skull earring with swords hanging off it. I mentioned he needed to get it under the hair cover. Told him Joanie’s a stickler for cleanliness and proper attire. Fact is, I pointed him in the direction of the storeroom to get a clean apron ‘cause the one he had on looked like it had been through the mill and back.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said he grabbed the first one he saw and went to clearing tables. Seemed kind of nervous. In a hurry. Kept looking at the clock over the sink,” Burt said. “When he walked out the back door, I told him unauthorized breaks didn’t happen around here. Said he forgot his insulin shot and would be right back.”

“Did he come back?”

“Not yet.” The cook’s body eased, like the air in a balloon being released.

“You did good, Burt. Real good.” JB walked over to the dishwasher, deposited his fork and bowl, then turned to Burt. “Don’t suppose you could give us a description of the man?”

“Sure thing.” The cook walked next to Kennett, looked up. “Yep, ‘bout his height. Slim in the pants. Walked with a bad limp. You know, the kind with a hip stuck out and a draggy foot.”

JB kept a straight face, but details on this description were a little too specific. A little too exact. A disguise meant to distract.

“Dark brown eyes.” The cook’s voice strengthened. “His bushy, black beard made me wonder why Joanie hadn’t made him shave. Then I saw the scar at the edge of the hairline.” He stroked his finger from his temple, across his cheek, and into the beard area. “Figured that’s why she let him pass.”

The sheriff stood, held out his hand. “Thanks. You’ve been a lot of help. We may need to ask some more questions later, but I think we’ve got what we need for now.”

Kennett and JB shook the older man’s hand, too. And Joanie gave him a hug before he stepped out the back door.

Burt turned around. “Almost forgot the tattoo. Had half a heart on his forearm with ragged edges. You know…like one of them cutting strips on a box of waxed paper. And some numbers in it.”

JB focused on what might be an identifying mark. “Could you make out the numbers?”

“Not all of them, but there was a 3 and an 8, I know for sure.”

“Thanks, Burt. Thanks a lot.”

After the cook left, Joanie closed the restaurant early and then headed to the pub area through the adjoining doorway.

Five minutes later, Sheriff Davis, JB, and Kennett stepped out onto Main Street.

“Nothing but one big masquerade. At least we know his height,” the rookie said. “And the color of his eyes.”

“Even those could have been contacts.” JB’s insides rumbled with fearsome thoughts. “The tattoo might mean something. But the scar might have just been the paste at the edge of the whiskers.”

Kennett started down the street. “I’ll check on any surveillance cameras in the area. See you guys at the office.”

The sheriff and JB climbed in the patrol car and headed to the police department.

“What do you think?” Sheriff Davis asked.

JB clenched his hand then released. “I think this looks damn professional. The guy didn’t miss a trick. Got Joanie out so there’d be no questions. Wore everything to make a witness not really see him. Knew Marcy’s whereabouts.” He ground his fist against the door.

“So where does that leave us?” The sheriff angled into his parking spot, and the two men got out and braced their forearms on the top of the cruiser.

JB assessed what he knew of the attacker.

Somebody with experience in disguises. At the restaurant for sure. Maybe other places.

Somebody with knowledge in explosives, because no matter what the gas company said, he knew in his gut the blast at her office had been professionally set.

Somebody skilled in automotives and weapons. Very skilled in marksmanship to have inched closer to the target in front of the bank, yet only wounded the victim instead of shot-to-kill. Because looking back, this had all started right then and there.

Why then? What had been different in the everyday life of Marcy that day?

Then there was what the note on the burger had said. Something about finishing off her hot-shot ex-husband.

Where did that leave him?

JB’s heart pounded with adrenaline, pierced with pain at the only conclusion. He’d come home. He’d brought this with him. He’d dragged Marcy into his life of danger. Just like she’d said—danger followed him. This time it had followed him home. Right to her doorstep.

“It’s me. Whoever’s doing this is after me through Marcy. The guy knows everything. Almost like he knows me personally. Almost like…” JB couldn’t say the words.

“One of yours? FBI or something close?” From the look on Davis’s face, he’d already reached the same deduction.

“Maybe. Then again, I’ve had some rough cases lately. Locked a lot of people up who didn’t go easy. Some of them had mighty big-time friends.”

Sheriff Davis straightened. “One of those the case where you felt like you’d been ratted out?”

JB nodded. He’d always wondered if it had been someone from a previous case who’d recognized him undercover on the second one. Turned him in for a price. In fact, he hoped that was what happened, because otherwise, it meant someone in the Bureau had busted his cover. Either way, someone was out to get him. Why?

“You know the Crayton Police will follow procedure. Cover every possible scenario from our end until something shakes out one way or the other. That’s all we can do.” The sheriff heaved a deep sigh. “What are you gonna do?”

JB knew the drill. Get the victim, the witness, into hiding. Rotate backup watches on the safe house. Keep the victim safe at all costs to yourself. This case was different. Marcy was the victim. Survival would be key in his mind. “I’m taking her into hiding until you and your police figure this out.”

Sheriff Davis leaned away from the car. “We can protect her just as good here in Crayton.”

“The hell you say.” JB hated to get in the man’s business, but Marcy was his to save. “I’ll protect her any way I have to. Got that? Any way I have to.”

“I know it’s hard to hear, but you’ve got to get your emotions under control. Otherwise, you’ll get both of you killed. Be careful you don’t overstep your—”

“Overstep?” JB raised one finger from his fist. “There’s only one person who better be careful about my overstepping. And he better be damn afraid, because he’s targeted the wrong person this time. He’s target Marcy. Nobody does that…nobody.”